


Small Comfort

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: tv-universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 12:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1226737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's not your fault."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Early Season Two. Written for LJ's tv_universe community for the prompt "headbutt of love".
> 
> * * *

Glenn spends his first night at the farm alternately dozing on the sofa or wandering up and down on the big wraparound porch. In the old man's room he occasionally hears Rick and Lori's murmured voices; peers inside once to see Lori crying silently into her cupped hands. When Rick comes out onto the verandah and grips the rail he sends the other man an enquiring look, get a clipped headshake in response. 

He prays more than once. And when he nods off, he dreams of that last flash of blue T-shirt before Sophia disappeared into the trees, and of Carl's pallid skin against the sheets, and of the inky darkness of the interstate and the return of the herd.

He starts to breathe a little easier when he sees the dust cloud of the approaching RV in the morning, but he doesn't truly relax until he hears the rumble of Daryl's motorcycle.

* * *

They set up near a small grouping of trees in Hershel's front yard. Glenn leaves behind the dubious comfort of the sofa and the conversation of the farmer's daughter, gathers his belongings from the RV and sets up his tent. He keeps an eye on Daryl as he does the same, takes in the barely contained violence in the tying off of ropes and the pounding of pegs into the soft earth. Watches the way Daryl crosses his arms at his chest when they discuss restarting the search for Sophia, the way he bites at the inside of his lips and turns away.

He catches Daryl's eye when the group disperses, juts his chin toward the back of the RV before wandering in that direction. He waits for five minutes before coming out to see Daryl vanishing into the treeline with his crossbow on his back.

* * *

"It's not your fault."

Daryl starts, his hand going instinctively to the knife at his belt, and despite everything Glenn feels a little thrill of pride that he can occasionally surprise the man. He waits until Daryl's hand has moved away from the weapon before taking another step toward the shadowed copse of trees, squints to make out Daryl leaning against the crumpled bark of an old maple.

"Sophia," he clarifies. His own voice sounds so loud in the evening stillness, easily able to carry back to the group gathered around the campfire, listlessly staring at the flames and trying to ignore Carol's soft weeping from the RV. He swallows, tries to pitch his voice softer. "It's not your fault."

When the shadows move, he imagines Daryl scraping a bare shoulder on the tree as he shifts. Wonders if he'll find scratches there, later; broken skin that he will lave with his tongue in the sweaty aftermath. 

"She got spooked and ran," he says, taking another hesitant step forward. "You did all you could. It's not—"

"Will you stop talking?" Daryl says quietly. "You weren't even there."

Glenn blinks, stops with only the tips of his sneakered toes in the shadows. It doesn't sound like recrimination, but he winces anyway. "Daryl—"

Daryl explodes off the tree, closing the gap between them in two furious strides. "You weren't there," he clips out. "I lost the trail! Went runnin' off after a fucking walker instead of stickin' to the damn plan! Could've had Sophia back in her mama's arms right now!"

Glenn remembers the sickly look on Daryl's face when he returned with Rick to the interstate. Remembers the stains on the man's gloves, the foul stench of them. And he can only imagine what it took for him to hunt down and disembowel a walker, to stick his hands into that rotting pile of flesh. 

The anger comes off Daryl in waves, so hot that Glenn can practically feel them buffeting his skin. He takes a tiny half-inch step closer anyway, leans in to rest his forehead against Daryl's. The man is shaking from the effort of holding on, holding back, and Glenn closes his eyes before slowing lifting his arms to rest his hands lightly on Daryl's waist. 

He doesn't waste any more breath on talk of fault or failure. He knows Daryl, has lain next to him and heard the murmured stories of his childhood. He knows that Daryl will continue the search until all hope is lost. 

So Glenn just stands quietly, silently, until Daryl's arms gradually wrap around his waist. Lets Daryl crush him close, until the other man's head bends and Daryl buries his nose in the crook of his neck. He opens his eyes, releases his grip on Daryl's waist to smooth his fingers through the thick, sweaty strands of hair at the nape of Daryl's neck. 

The light has shifted, bathing them in moonlight. And when Daryl loosens his grip only enough to shuffle them back into the shadows of the trees, Glenn follows. When Daryl turns him toward the tree, Glenn presses his cheek to the bark and digs his fingers into the weathered old trunk. And when Daryl prepares himself silently and presses a kiss to the back of his neck before pushing slowly inside him, Glenn gasps and pushes back to meet his thrusts, bites his lip so the others won't hear. 

They clean up in silence, too. There's no need for words. Glenn leaves the copse of trees first, knows that Daryl will dip silently through the woods to arrive in the camp from a different direction. Daryl's desire for discretion irks him, but there was also a time when Daryl wouldn't accept any comfort at all, when Daryl dressed hastily and rushed away after they'd been together, when Daryl didn't talk to him about Merle or his parents or his childhood. All those things changed the more patient he was, the more comfortable Daryl became. This will change, too.

He joins Dale and Andrea and Shane at the fire, listens to the wood chips pop and burn, tries not to make it obvious that he is straining for the rustle of dragging footsteps, for the low snarls of the undead. He knows that Hershel has said that the trees around his property are free of walkers. He's learned that what people tell him often doesn't matter a whole lot. It's actions that count. 

Glenn starts to breathe a little easier when he sees Daryl emerge from the other side of the clearing, but he doesn't truly relax until Daryl sits down beside him on the log.


End file.
